


The Hobgoblins Christmas Concert

by shiiki



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-23
Updated: 2007-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:18:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9575456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiiki/pseuds/shiiki
Summary: ‘The man people believe to be Sirius Black is actually Stubby Boardman, lead singer of popular singing group The Hobgoblins, who retired from public life after being struck on the ear by a turnip at a concert in Little Norton Church Hall …’





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a very late night watching GoF DVD extras with my friend Choops. We agreed that Gary Oldman could have fit in with the Weird Sisters, and the plot bunny came knocking. 'Write it!' she told me, so here it is. Merry Christmas, and enjoy the utter madness!

_‘What people don’t realise is that Sirius Black is a false name,’ says Mrs Purkiss. ‘The man people believe to be Sirius Black is actually Stubby Boardman, lead singer of popular singing group The Hobgoblins, who retired from public life after being struck on the ear by a turnip at a concert in Little Norton Church Hall …’  
\--The Quibbler_

 

Only Sirius could have thought up something as ridiculous as this. James groaned as he looked down at himself, trussed up in the most garish-looking outfit—was that meant to be _fashion_ , those awful rips and tears? It felt more as though he was wearing rags befitting an Azkaban escapee! And honestly, the whole sexy-dancing thing … well, it was more of a hip-swaying thing, and James certainly didn’t feel sexy. He felt like an idiot. He wondered what Lily would say—wait, _no_ , he hoped Lily never found out about this. There’d be venison on the table if she did, he thought grimly, and felt grateful that he had at least sworn Sirius to secrecy on the matter of their escapade.

Sirius, though, seemed to be in his element. The crowd even seemed to adore him, screaming like a bunch of banshees. Sirius waggled his hips at them, his grin confident, cocky. James admitted grudgingly that he was carrying off this mad scheme pretty well.

And then he started to sing.

*

Sturgis Boardman was tired. In every sense of the word.

Oh, it had been exciting, enjoyable, even, when he was younger, touring England, throwing concerts, attending parties. As the dashing, handsome young lead singer of The Hobgoblins, he’d been the star of every show, and which young fellow wouldn’t enjoy that attention?

But he was now pushing forty, and the toll of late night after late night, especially during the holiday season, which seemed to be made up of nothing but concerts, was having a dampening effect on his spirit.

‘Chin up, Stubby,’ said Barnabus ‘Barny’ Gamp, The Hobgoblins’ manager. ‘You know Christmas is the best time for sales. You’ll get a good rest once the New Year’s over. Besides, people need some cheering in their lives, what with all the doom and gloom the Ministry’s throwing about with that war effort nonsense.’

Barny was always saying that these days. Sturgis found that he couldn’t bring himself to care any more. After New Year there’d be some other occasion—Barny was adept at finding any excuse for more shows, more concerts, more events: anything that brought in more Galleons from the fans. According to Barny, it was _always_ the best time for sales.

Sturgis was sick of it. He didn’t want to sing and dance night after night after night, not with a body that was starting to complain in the joints and a voice that felt strained from all the screaming he’d done over the years. He wanted to be called ‘Sturgis’ again—a proper, respectable name, not that silly ‘Stubby’ that had evolved as a nickname from the fans. Oh, it had been all right when he’d been a young, silly kid, but at forty, one wanted something more dignified.

He wanted to go out and meet women his own age, no more of those infatuated teenage girls throwing themselves at his feet. There was something almost indecent about it, a man his age being drooled over by innocent girls he could have fathered—in the figurative sense, of course! (Though he had a nagging suspicion that there might have been a _mistake_ or two in his wild youth.)

He wanted to retire.

‘Out of the question,’ said Barny, the only time Sturgis had dared to broach the topic. ‘Stubby, my man, what would The Hobgoblins do without its lead singer? Do you mean to ruin us?’

He _would_ play the guilt card. And Sturgis could never bring himself to let the rest of his band down. They were fine chaps, really, and he’d known them for more than twenty years. Since their Hogwarts days, actually, when they’d been Hufflepuff’s dream team.

‘You’d destroy everything we’ve worked so hard to build up,’ Barny reproached him. ‘And it’s only the beginning, mate—there’s still so much more to be milked from this gig. S’long as there’s fans, there’s us!’

Of course. Though it had to end at _some_ point—they couldn’t go on indefinitely as the most popular band in wizarding Britain. There had to be a time when they finally split their earnings and went their separate ways. And that time couldn’t be far off. After twenty years, they had to have made enough for each of them to have a sizeable nest of their own.

With all this in mind, it was no surprise that when Sturgis awoke with a horribly sore throat the morning of a Christmas concert, he felt a brief hope. Surely they could put off the concert if he wasn’t up to singing?

Then he sighed, remembering the number of charms and quick-fix potions he’d taken over the years so that illness or no, he’d still be able to make it up on stage looking and sounding fresh as an Everblooming Daisy. He stared morosely at the potion store, wishing with a stab of hatred that surprised him that he could just smash the lot. He hated those things—they tasted vile, and it was certain to mean a hangover of massive proportions the next morning. Which often carried on in a vicious cycle until a blessed day of rest.

Well, he didn’t have to do anything now. Maybe a miracle would happen. Death Eaters could attack Little Norton Church Hall, where the concert was meant to be staged. Maybe it would burn to cinders. Maybe _he_ would burn it down. Now there was a thought.

Which was why Sturgis Boardman found himself at Little Norton Church Hall two days before Christmas with arson on his mind. And the sinking feeling that he’d never be able to bring himself to do it.

His band-mate and friend of twenty-six years, Patrick ‘Paddy’ Thruston, was already there, setting up his drums backstage. He offered Sturgis a cheerful greeting, which Sturgis returned in a croak. Paddy winced.

‘Not again, mate?’ he said, shaking his head sympathetically. Paddy was usually the one who looked after Sturgis the morning after he took his combination of potions to spruce himself up for a concert.

‘’S’happenin’ more an’ more now,’ Sturgis managed to groan. Paddy shook his head.

‘You know what I’m thinking, mate? We’re getting too old for this gig. Used to be a blast when we were kids, you know? But what I wouldn’t give now to be spending Christmas at home with Wendy and the little ones.’

Paddy, lucky old bloke, was the only one of them married. His wife, Wendy, was a dear, and the children—four-year-old Orsino and two-year-old Ursula—were the most adorable things Sturgis had ever seen.

‘How are they?’

‘Oh, they’re all good … you should see Orsino. He’s taken a real liking to the drums. I was thinking I’d get him a mini drum set for Christmas; stop him banging on the table with spoons all the time, you know.’ Paddy looked wistful. ‘Be nice to be home to see him open it.’ He grinned. ‘Well, I’m sure looking forward to a break after the mad season’s all over.’

Sturgis managed a grim smile. How Paddy could be so optimistic about a break, he just couldn’t understand. He left Paddy to work in peace with the drums, and moved off into the stage wings.

It was there, staring out at the stage he’d have to be on in twelve hours’ time, considering the options available to him, that he heard the voices.

‘Let me get this straight, Padfoot. You think Bellatrix is going to stake out a _Hobgoblins_ concert?’

‘She _loves_ The Hobgoblins, Prongs,’ said the voice that was probably ‘Padfoot’. _Code names_ , thought Sturgis wisely. ‘You’ve never seen it—she used to have posters of Stubby Boardman on her wall, and she practically worshipped him. Well, we all know who she worships these days, but you never know. It’s as good a lead as any.’

‘Prongs’ snorted. ‘Are you sure you don’t just want to watch the concert yourself?’

‘I’d have bought tickets if I wanted to,’ said Padfoot. ‘But it’s better if we’re undercover, you know that.’

Sturgis thought it was time to cut in. He had no idea who these people were, nor who they were plotting to stake out, but he knew that Barny for one wouldn’t be very happy to learn that people were planning to attend the concert free-of-charge.

‘Ahem!’ he rasped loudly.

The voices stopped abruptly.

‘I know you’re there. Won’t hurt you if you show yourself.’

No answer. Sturgis pursed his lips. He’d bet the two intruders were now trying to sneak out. Not a sign of them, though … had they cast a Disillusionment Charm? Quietly, he cast a quick _Finite Incantatem_.

‘Bother!’ He heard Paddy’s exclamation follow a loud clang, and realised he must have nullified the effects of a spell Paddy had been casting. Guiltily, he hurried out of the wings to find his friend.

And then a series of curses that were decidedly _not_ from Paddy erupted.

‘What in the …’ Paddy’s bewildered voice echoed backstage. Sturgis arrived just in time to see two black-haired young men tangled up in wires.

‘They just fell from the ceiling!’ Paddy said. ‘The wires, I mean—just dropped down, you know? And then these two appeared out of nowhere! Didja Apparate in, boys?’ He stared at their intruders.

Sturgis pointed his wand at the intruders as they untangled themselves and got to their feet. They were young—almost fresh out of Hogwarts, he’d wager—and they didn’t _look_ too dangerous, but you couldn’t be too careful with strangers these days.

‘Er … hi,’ said one of them, pushing his hair out of his eyes and adjusting his glasses. He gave them a sheepish grin.

‘Smooth, Prongs,’ sighed the other. Sturgis noted that he was rakishly handsome, with dark hair that seemed fall naturally around a perfectly chiselled face.

‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ He’d meant to sound menacing, but the cough that escaped at the end of the question rather spoilt the effect.

‘This is – uh – Pad … Paddy,’ said the first boy, the one with the glasses, ‘and I’m – er – I’m Pro—’

‘Proudfoot,’ his accomplice cut in quickly. ‘John Proudfoot.’

Sturgis narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re breaking and entering, boys. I suggest you give us your _real_ names, or we’re calling the Aurors.’ Never mind that the Aurors had no interest in catching petty criminals these days, when there was larger fish to fry out there.

The two boys exchanged a quick look. Then with a sigh—

‘James Potter and Sirius Black,’ said bespectacled boy. ‘We’re—um … fans.’

‘Yeah,’ said the other—Sirius. ‘Stubby Boardman’s my absolute hero!’ He said this with such a ring of sincerity that no one could doubt it. ‘I mean, my cousin Bella and I used to play Hobgoblins when we were kids … and I was always Stubby. He’s the best.’

Sturgis noted with irony that Sirius didn’t appear to have any idea that he was indeed speaking with his idol.

James Potter elbowed his friend in the ribs. ‘We’re really sorry,’ he said. ‘It was wrong of us to break in like this—I mean, we wanted the chance to meet the stars—get an autograph and all, but you’re right. This was wrong. We’ll just be going then.’

‘Hey, now,’ Paddy cut in, ‘no harm in that. If it’s an autograph you want, I’m sure Stubby’ll be glad to sign something for you.’ He grinned at Sturgis.

The boys’ reaction was almost funny, if it wasn’t somewhat insulting.

‘ _Stubby_?’ said Sirius, his eyes raking dubiously over Sturgis. ‘ _You’re_ Stubby?’

‘Yes I am.’ Even in a rasp of a voice, Sturgis was sure his annoyance showed.

‘Oh. I didn’t think … I mean, I thought you were …’ He caught himself quickly. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ he ended lamely.

‘Likewise.’ Sturgis sighed. He supposed he couldn’t blame the kid. After all, he wasn’t the handsome devil of a singer he’d once been, especially not offstage, without all the make-up and glamour charms. Why, young Sirius Black certainly looked more the part than he did.

And then the idea hit.

*

‘I still say it’s a bad idea,’ said James.

‘Oh come on, it’ll be fun! Besides, we’re doing the old bloke a favour. I mean, did you hear him? Croaking worse than a toad. He deserves to be in bed resting.’

‘Yes, but Sirius, have you forgotten? _You can’t sing!_ ’

‘I’m not _that_ bad!’ protested Sirius, highly affronted. ‘Anyway, that Barny chap said he’d charm the speakers to blast Stubby’s recordings instead, so there’s nothing to worry about.’

James shook his head, resigning himself to a very long evening.

*

At eight o’clock, as the curtains went up in Little Norton Church Hall, Stubby Boardman stretched out in his bed and sighed contently, a steaming mug of honeyed tea with just a slice of lemon in his hands, and prepared to settle down with a stack of Martin Miggs comics—a luxury he hadn’t had in a very, _very_ long time.

It had been the perfect plan. And that Sirius kid had been so enthusiastic about it as well. Barny, of course, had been reluctant, but he’d given in eventually; even he had to admit that there were merits to using a new, young, and even more handsome ‘Stubby’. And Paddy had surprised them all by asking James Potter to take his place as well. Wendy and the kids would certainly be having a nice surprise tonight.

If he was lucky, perhaps Sirius would drive the crowd wild tonight. He might be able to convince Barny then that it was time for a permanent change-over … a passing of the torch.

Sturgis sighed in contentment at the thought that tomorrow, he might be able to finally go back to just being Sturgis.

*

The crowd was wild. Wild with anger.

They’d hit the snag that James had attempted again and again to point out: Sirius’s singing didn’t exactly sound like a bunch of caterwauling Kneazles, but it came close. Even the speakers, charmed as they were to play the original Stubby Boardman recording, could not hide the wail of Sirius’s voice as he attempted to warble out, ‘ _You Transfigured the walls to stone!_ ’

The tomatoes started flying first, and then they were all forced to duck all manners of country vegetables. Someone managed to strike Sirius in the ear with a rotten turnip before mercifully, the curtains fell. James stared bleakly at the stage floor. He’d never expected that death would come at the hands of a musical band ready to _Avada Kedavra_ them for messing up their performance.

But then …

‘That was awesome!’ The lead guitarist came up to Sirius to shake his hand enthusiastically. ‘I haven’t seen such excitement in ages!’

‘D’you think ol’ Barny’ll finally retire us?’ asked the bass player hopefully.

James’s jaw dropped. They were _happy_ that their concert had been a flop?

‘Bless him, old Stubby. Knew he’d get us out of this in the end.’

‘You … wanted to quit?’ asked James, flabbergasted.

‘Well, sure, boy. You do the same thing for twenty years, you get tired of it.’

‘Then why didn’t you just … quit?’

‘Oh well, s’always good to go out with a bang, innit?’

And go out with a bang they did. As he and Sirius ran from Little Norton Church Hall, heavily pursued by angry fans with more hard vegetables, James wondered if he would instead meet death at the hands of irate Hobgoblins fans.

*

_Dear Mr Boardman,_

_I was at your recent Christmas concert at Little Norton Church Hall. While many have written off the concert as a frightful waste of money, I personally have never been so entertained. I admire your courage in breaking tradition and daring to attempt such new age music although the mundane minds of the present are as yet unable to appreciate._

_I am sorry to hear of the disbanding of The Hobgoblins, as I felt you had much promise for the future after that amazing concert. Such a pity, as I told my niece, who continues to apologise for ‘dragging me to such a horrible show’. I tell her not to worry; it was the best concert I’ve been to in ages, but when do young people ever listen to us older ones?_

_I hope it is not too presumptuous of me, but I would very much love if you would consent to have tea with me some time. I am quite sure it would be worth your while!_

_(I have enclosed a photo.)_

_Yours in sincere admiration,  
Doris Purkiss_

Sturgis folded up the letter contentedly. Things had worked out better than he’d thought they would.

*

Ten miles away, James Potter was reassessing the way he might die.

‘Tell me,’ said Lily in the soft voice he knew indicated danger. ‘Tell me you _didn’t_ do this.’

He stared at the _Daily Prophet_ ’s entertainment page, where a large black-and-white photo of Sirius jaunting around on the stage sat below the headlines: ‘HOBGOBLINS DISBAND AFTER CONCERT FLOP’

If you squinted—and unfortunately Lily had very sharp eyes—you could just make out James in the background, dressed in that ridiculous costume.

‘Well, uh … it did start as a matter of anti-Death Eater security …’

 

\--The End--


End file.
